Hollow Man's Homecoming
by 50ftQueenie
Summary: You're the wrong man for the job, but there's no one else left. Language, drugs, language about drugs.
1. Chapter 1

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

There is no natural sleep these days. The rising and the setting of the sun doesn't figure into it. It's up with the blue pills and down with the yellow. When they run out- always before the man makes his rounds- then it's the booze for both.

Showers are few and far between in this place. You had longer, more gratifying showers in the army. The tub in the bathroom at the end of hall is grimy and the water is always cold.

You've thought on it for days, maybe months. It all kind of runs together during the winters up here. Outside your window it keeps snowing. The library and the bus station close, and they send the kids home from school. There's a sledding hill that you can see from your window. The kids head straight from there from school and go up and down that hill until the window kicks up and the snow makes it impossible to see.

Then everything closes up. The stoplights change over for no one. The snow wraps up your building and your neighbors come out into the hall to trade each other wine for cheese and bread and bologna. You've lost your taste for anything of it except the blues and the yellows.

This town is shit, you've come to believe, and it feels like it's a million miles from Tulsa.

* * *

You figure it's time to go home- see Karen and her pack of boys. It's been years since you left them for a military transport bound for Korea. That baby of hers was afraid of you. He wouldn't take his thumb out of his mouth when Karen gathered them all around you for a picture. The baby had Karen's eyes- warm and greenish gray. Like swamp water, you used to tease her when you were kids.

The next time the clouds clear up and the plows run through town, you tell Jensen- the guy who rents the next room- that you're clearing out. It's more of a courtesy than out of sentiment. He likes to think he looks after you. He had a boy that got himself shot in a bar fight.

"What you going to do when you run out of those?" He taunts you, gesturing to the half-empty bottles on your dresser. It's his way of asking you to stay and keep on being his son.

"I'm done," you tell him. "When those are gone, I'll sweat it out."

"I've heard that one before. You know those are women's pills."

"I ain't sprouted tits yet, have I? They give him to me at the VA." This used to be true. The VA cut you off a year ago. Now you get them where ever you can.

"They give to hysterical housewives."

"Do I look like a hysterical housewife to you?"

You can't imagine what a housewife would have to go nutty over, but- yes- you know there's plenty of them taking the same stuff. You think of your Ma and your little sister, Karen, running their houses like well-oiled machines. You guess you've had it harder than them. Or maybe you ain't as tough.

"How you getting there?" Jensen breaks into your thoughts.

"Hitch to Omaha, then the bus."

"And when you get there."

"I'll go to my sister's. I ain't seen her since…" You aren't exactly sure. You aren't good with time. You try to imagine how old that smallest boy should be.

"She's got a pack of boys, her and her old man," You tell Jensen.

"Then one more oughtn't make any difference," he says.

"That's what I was thinking."

* * *

You hit the Laundromat before you attempt to cajole yourself a ride on the highway. Every scrap of clothing you own, which ain't much, smells like smoke and a drunk's sweat. You wake up soaked in sweat if you don't take the pills. Even with them you always feel on the edge of waking up screaming. It's not a good sleep. The pills just keep you from lurching out of it.

Two Indian girls have pushed the carts and the baskets backs against the walls and the machines to clear a spot to do cartwheels. You don't recognize the language they speak to their grandmother. Closer to home and you'll start hearing Cherokee and Osage. You'll be able to catch a few words.

The older girl is the same age as Karen's oldest boy was the last time you saw them. This little girl's an athlete, just like Karen's boy. Every moment has a forceful grace. The girl turns cartwheels across the floor. She spring to her feet laughing.

"You're quite the tumbler," You say to her.

She says, "I'm a june bug."

"A june bug? In February? That can't be right."

Just to prove to you that it's possible, she cartwheels back across the floor. Right as spring rain in Oklahoma.

* * *

Something is wrong. Everything is wrong when you get there.

The house looks a hundred years older, but your brother-in-law hasn't aged a day since you saw him last.

You stand across the street and watch him come out of the house. He's still built like he was walking out onto the football field in '43. This isn't quite the same Darrel you remember, though. He was never this tall. Who has a growth spurt in their twenties and after three kids?

It all feels wrong. It's like being transported into some science fiction alternate universe. You felt the same way when you first hit the ground in Korea. All the plants were different. It was like Alice's Wonderland.

You man up and walk across the street. Your brother-in-law is out in the yard now looking under the hood of a car. The car- like the house- is the same except that it seems to have been struck by the same wasting disease.

You lean on the fence.

"Hey, buddy," you say. "Long time, no see."

He turns to face you. He hasn't aged a day, but his eyes are different. They ain't Darrel's eyes. They're two shades lighter. More green than blue.

He frowns at you for a second. Then those eyes widen and steps forward with his hand outstretched.

"Uncle Terry?" He says.


	2. Chapter 2

SE Hinton owns the Curtis family and The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Two-

You shake your nephew's hand- more like a paw, a ball- handler's hand. His grip is like a rock: firm and sincere. When you ask him how long's it been, though, he lowers his eyes and lets your hand go.

"You don't know, do you?" He asks.

"Don't know what?"

"When's the last time you saw Mom and Dad?"

The last time you saw Karen and Darryl, Sr. together was the last time you saw all of them- in 1952, just before you left for Korea. You were thirty-two years old and too old to be playing Army, Karen said, but what else did you have? Couldn't keep bumming around Tulsa living off the Veteran's benefits from the last war. You'd been drafted at nineteen and sent to North Africa. Spent three months sleeping on the ground in the desert. After that, you always seemed to need to keep moving like the sands that washed over you in waves during those nights.

Nothing was coming of living back in Tulsa. When the opportunity arose, you offered yourself up to the Korean conflict. You and Karen had fought about it, but she still insisted on taking that picture of you and all her boys as though she expected never to see you again. That was thirteen years ago.

Darryl, Jr. tells you before you can answer, "They're gone, Uncle Terry. It's been almost a year. They were killed…well, Dad was killed on New Year's Eve. Mom held on a couple of days, but she didn't make it."

"You old man was driving? Was he drunk?"

Darryl, Jr. seems to shiver, but he's old enough- you figure- to handle the question and to have an answer for you.

"Yeah, I'd guess he was. It was New Year's Eve."

"You by yourself then?"

"I got custody of Soda and Pony. There's a social worker comes to see us."

"How do you do for money?" You ask, hoping he doesn't take it as an offer. You don't have any yourself.

"I work. I got a roofing job. I drywall when it gets cold. I help around this gym downtown too. On weekends. Spot guys who are trying to be boxers."

He doesn't ask what you do. Maybe it's obvious. Maybe it's all over your face- pale and slick with sweat even in the February wind.

He springs back to life and pushes open the gate.

"You should come in. Shit, Uncle, it's cold. You want some coffee?"

You don't answer, just nod and follow him. The stairs to the porch creak under your weight. The paint is peeling. Your sister never would have stood for that.

* * *

You knew him once as Little Darryl, but that no longer seems appropriate. You start to call him "son" like you would any young man his age who wouldn't find it condescending and punch you for it. He doesn't seem to mind it. In fact, he seems to crave it.

He sits across from you at the dining room table and tells you how it happened- how your little sister and your brother-in-law died. He tells you about his brothers. Sodapop isn't in school. Ponyboy gets grades like he's some kind of professor-in-training, but he's distant and doesn't have a lot of friends since two of the guys he came up with died last fall.

"What happened there?" You ask.

"One died in a fire. He and Pony saved a bunch of kids," Darryl says. He's repeated the story a hundred times, you'd guess, but it still feels strange to him. "The other one- Pony's other buddy- got shot."

You can tell from the way he shifts his eyes that "the other one" was Darryl's friend too. He just can't bring himself to say it.

"That's a tough row to hoe," You tell him.

"Yeah, it's been rough on Pony."

You meant Darryl when you said it. He won't admit to it himself. It surprises you, then, when he lifts his head and says to you with a pleading look in his eyes:

"Where you staying, Uncle Terry?"

"Nowhere at the moment. I was just passing through. Thought I'd visit with…with y'all."

You can see where this is going, and it makes you wish for another pill. When you were his age, you were sleeping on the ground in North Africa, getting bombs dropped on you every day the weather was clear. You want this boy sitting across the table from you to man up and carry on without you. But then, you know where carrying on alone got you. Your nephew is just a kid. He's had the rug pulled out from under him. In you, he sees an adult he thinks he knows and thinks he can trust.

Darryl gets nervous when you hesitate. He offers:

"We ain't done anything with Mom and Dad's room. Soda and Pony usually sleep together. They sleep better that way."

"What kind of work is there around here?" You dare to ask. "Oil rigs?"

"I never worked on the rigs. The hours are too long, and the social worker wants me home with them in the evenings."

You've worked on the rigs a few times in the past. It is work for a younger man than you are now. Still- Darryl's right- the hours are long. You could help these boys out some with the bills, but limit your time in the house where you might have to act like a parent.

"I'll look around today," you tell him. "See if I can find an opening. I'll let you know tonight if I've found anything. Don't go fluffing the pillows or nothing until I have something where's I can earn my keep."

He nods, but then he says, "Okay. Dinner's at six. We're having chicken. It's Pony's night to cook, so it's safe to eat."

And you know that you're stuck. You shake his hand again, tell him it's good to see him. You leave your bag behind when you leave the house to look for work. Your pills are inside, and it makes your palms sweat to think of being separated from them all afternoon.

* * *

It's all too easy: you have a job on a rig the instant you flash your military ID and tell the man behind the desk at Harris Oil that nope, you haven't been to 'Nam.

"Them boys come back crazy," he explains and you keep quiet. "We ain't hiring from that crowd. It's not even a real war."

You breathe deep, stare at the WPA oil painting on the wall behind him, and don't interject that Korea wasn't a real war either, but it sure felt that way. You fought the fascists and that's good enough for the man behind the desk.

"Where were you stationed?" He asks.

"All over hell. Sort of made a career out of it." A career with a nine year break in the middle, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Well, it will be good to have a man on the crew who knows discipline."

You nod and hold back a smile. You had a buddy who used to say that the Army was like the Boy Scouts except the Boy Scouts had adult leadership. Discipline and following it have never been your strong suits.

You leave him your social security number and the address to Karen's house. You tell him you don't have a phone yet. He says not to worry, just be back at 6:30 on Monday morning. The truck out to the rigs leaves at 6:30 sharp.

When you turn to the leave the office, it's still light outside. It isn't anywhere near dinnertime with your nephews. You aren't ready. Instead of heading back, you get on a bus that's going over the bridge to the south side of town to visit someone else you used to know.

* * *

a/n: The line about the Army and Boy Scouts is something I heard a million times from my Grandpa. It was too good not to steal from him.


	3. Chapter 3

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders and the Curtis family.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Three-

She's the only person you ever knew personally who had a guest house, and the guest house was her studio to boot.

Her parents recognized her talents early on and let her use the guest house to paint. Sometimes they let her stay out there all night, and sometimes she let you stay with her. That was in 1952.

You get off the bus three blocks away. Unlike your sister's neighborhood- your family's old neighborhood- on the other side of town, the south side looks the same as you remember it from before. The lawns are neat and the shrubs are pruned. The houses look like they were built within the past week.

Her house- really Maryanne Boardman's parent's house- has pillars on the front like Tara. The driveway curves up to the front door. The backyard, with its guest house and pool, are shielded from the street by a high, white fence. A large oak tree grows on the street-side of the fence, but its branches reach out over the back yard. You used to climb it to get to Maryanne's studio. This will be the first time you've ever gone to her front door.

The woman who answers the door is dressed in a starched, green uniform. You don't recognize each other personally, but you recognize one another as each other's people. She is suspicious of your being here. She purses her lips.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Maryanne."

"Mrs. Tyler doesn't live here anymore."

Mrs. Tyler. She's married and moved away. Why did you think it would be any different?

"I'm an old friend," you tell the maid. "Can you tell me how I can get ahold of her?"

"She don't live in Tulsa anymore, sir. She lives with her family in Chicago."

Chicago gets cold in the winter. You've been there. You imagine Maryanne standing of the edge of that endless lake in a coat with a fur collar that she's turned up against the wind.

Again, you ask the maid, "Can you tell me how I might get ahold of her? I won't be in town for very long."

"I can't just give you her address and phone, sir. Why don't I take yours? If we hear from her, we'll pass it along."

She says _if we hear from her_ like it's something that isn't certain. Maryanne didn't write you after you re-enlisted. Like your sister, she said it was a stupid idea. She couldn't take the idea of you going off to Korea and maybe getting yourself killed. Karen had to stick it out and wonder because she was your sister. Maryanne cut you loose.

"Yeah," You say to the maid, shuffling your feet. "Tell her Terry's in town. Tell her I'm staying at my sister's."

Behind the maid, in the hall, you recognize a large painting as one of Maryanne's. It was one that she never liked, but that her mother deemed appropriate for public consumption. It wasn't Maryanne's style. The style she was developing in 1952 was more abstract. The colors were deeper, the images less clear. The painting in the hall is pastoral. You can see the hills above Tulsa and the oil rigs- probably rigs that her father owned and the same ones you'll be working on come Monday.

"Terry," the maid says. "Do you have a last name?"

Maryanne will know. You figure the maid wants to be able to tell the lady of the house so that she can run your name through her internal rotary file of names worth knowing.

"Terry Connolly. My sister was Karen Curtis. It's her house where I'm staying."

A knowing look crosses the maid's face. She's from your side of town. She knows what happened to Darryl and Karen Curtis. She knows more than you do.

"Thank you, Mr. Curtis," she says.

"Connolly," you correct her. "My sister married the Curtis."

"Yes, that's right. Thank you, Mr. Connolly."

You give her a curt nod and stuff your hands in your pockets. You walk away from the house, back towards the bus that will take you over to your side of the bridge.

* * *

Darryl Junior has them waiting around the table for you- a sign that he was more confident than you that you were coming back. They're hungry and fidgeting over their food, but they all three stand up when you come in. You don't recognize the younger two except that the middle one favors your sister.

He comes at you with a bounce in his step, his hand outstretched.

"Hey, Uncle Terry. I'm Sodapop. It sure has been a while. You got to tell me all about Korea. I think that's what I'm going to do…I'm going to join up when I'm old enough. Me and my buddy's been talking. We're both going to go over to Vietnam. I'd be making some good money to send back then. You got to tell Darry that for me, that I'll still be helping with the bills…"

"Soda, breathe," Darryl says.

You shake Sodapop's hand, and he drops back a little.

"Sure," You tell him. "I'll tell you about. Might not be what you want to hear, though, son."

"I can take it, Uncle Terry," he says.

It's not a question of _can he_, but more of a question of _should he have to_. You know that look in his eyes. He's made his decision, and nothing you say is going to change it. Watching him lope back to his seat at the table, you're filled with a sense of dread. He won't hear a word you have to say about it. Instead, he'll take your presence as proof that he, too, can return in one piece. You should have never come.

"You going to talk to me this time, boy?" You say to the youngest one, still standing behind his chair at the table. "Last time I seen you, you wouldn't take your thumb out of your mouth."

Ponyboy grins. He has a shy smile. He's handsome, but aloof.

"I don't suck my thumb anymore, Uncle Terry," he says.

"Don't lie," Sodapop teases him.

Ponyboy doesn't even try to argue with Sodapop. He looks back to you and rolls his eyes. Then he turns to Darry.

"Can we eat now? I got a lot of homework."

"Yeah, we can eat now. Uncle Terry, do you want to say grace?"

"No." It comes out so fast that it shocks you about as much as it does them. You stammer, "No, thank you. You're the man of the house, Darryl. You say the prayer."

He nods, and the other two bow their heads and mumble along with him. You await the _amen_ in silence.

Truth is, it's been so long since you've prayed for anything other than more pills and liquor that you wouldn't know what to ask for. What would you ask for- for these boys- that hasn't already been taken from them?

Still, they find reasons to give thanks- the food, the crumbling roof over their heads, and your return. Darryl thanks God for keeping you safe in your absence and for bringing you back home again.

You can't remember the last time you felt safe. It was probably here in this house, but things are very different now.


	4. Chapter 4

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders.

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Four-

She's coming toward you down the street looking like a ball of light. It's the fading sunlight in her hair and in the way she walks- a little bounce in her hips that makes you want to grab on.

Her red hair is tied up and there's a pencil stuck in it. She must be working somewhere- waiting tables or slinging drinks- and forgot to take it out. Or maybe she's on her way.

Whatever the case, she's headed straight for you now. She pushes the gate open, lets it fall shut behind her, and comes up the walk. At the bottom of the porch steps, she stops. She looks up at you- smoking your after-dinner cigarette and looking dumb- and frowns. Then she asks:

"Terry? Fuckin' Terry Connolly?"

You knew Bernadine in high school. She ran with your sister, and your mom hated her because she had the filthiest mouth of any girl on the North side.

"Come on up here, Bern. I'll wash out that mouth of yours."

"You couldn't take me. Give me a hug, Terry, and then let me have a cigarette. I got a shitty night ahead of me."

You meet her halfway on the stairs. She hugs you like a sister would, swings from side to side a bit, and then pulls away and snatches the cigarette right out from between your fingers.

"Where ya been?" She asks, but then she speaks again before you can open your mouth. "Forget that. What are you doing here? How long's it been?"

"A long, goddamned time. I've been all over. I did a tour in Korea, and then a tour at Leavenworth."

She's the first person you've told about that. It just slips out, but that Bernadine always had that way about her: like nothing you could get up to could be as mischievous as what she had going.

"What'd you do the time for?" She asks.

"I took a swing at my commanding officer."

"Did you make it stick?"

"Knocked him on his ass in the mud. Had to buy him a new uniform. My tour was almost up, so they shipped me back. I got to keep my benefits, but I had to sit a year for it."

She nods and stubs out the cigarette on the porch railing.

"Well, that accounts for- what- two years? What'd you do with the rest of it?"

You couldn't begin to string it all together for her into any kind of tale that would make sense. Instead you ask her:

"No way. Now you. Where's what's-his-name and that little boy you had?"

She laughs a gravely, smoker's laugh.

"What's-His-Name shall remain unnamed. We don't talk about him anymore. The boy's all grown up, or so he likes to think. The girl's almost eleven. That's why I'm here, actually…have you seen the boy?"

You shake your head. Your nephews are all in the house. No other neighborhood rug rats that you've noticed, though.

"Goddamn him," she mumbles. "He needs to get his ass home and watch his sister."

She steps past you onto the porch and leans through the door. She yells in at the boys:

"Y'all seen Keith?"

A chorus of mumbled _no_ _ma'ams_ in reply.

"Bullshit," she grumbles, closing the door and stepping back outside. "Your nephews are a bunch of lying bastards, every one of 'em."

"They didn't learn it from me," you tell her.

"When would they have?"

She starts back down the steps. At the bottom she turns again and says to you:

"If a big mouthy one named Two-Bit shows his face, tell him to get his ass home, will ya, Terry?"

"Two-Bit? Yeah, I'll do that. Will you do something for me, Bern?"

She nods, but looks wary.

"Sometime I need you to tell me what happened. No one ever told me…about Karen and Darryl. I didn't know until this morning."

"Christ, I'm awful sorry about that, Terry."

You shake your head, dismissing her pity.

"I just want you to tell me the story."

She lets her gaze drop to the ground and then she looks up at you again.

"It's exactly what you think it is," she says. "I got to go to work, but- yeah- I live in the same place. What's-His-Name got a new girl, but I got to keep the old house. Y'all come by, and we'll talk about it."

You nod and mumble a thanks. She gives you a little wave and starts off back towards the gate. You think maybe the bounce in her step has diminished some. The light from her hair has dimmed, but maybe it's just from the sun going down.

* * *

You know you'll regret doing it, but something forces you to do the parental thing when you go back into the house.

"Where's Bernadine's boy?" You ask your nephews. "She says you know. He's supposed to be watching his sister."

"Two-Bit cut out of school early," Ponyboy says, keeping his eyes on his book.

"I'd guess not to go to any goddamned job?"

The boy's eyes widen when you say it. There was never much cussing in the Curtis house. Your head is still outside with Bernadine and your language shows it.

"Sorry," you tell Ponyboy. "So, who's going to watch the little girl?"

Sodapop butts in: "She ain't that little, Uncle Terry. There's a neighbor lady who looks in on her."

It doesn't seem safe to you- Bernadine working at night and her little girl home alone. It's not your nephew's fault, but you feel like punishing them because their buddy's an idiot who doesn't help out his mom.

You take a breath and feel in your coat pocket for the loose yellow pill you keep there for emergencies. It's like a pacifier. It's an old one, darkened from the grease on your fingers. Sometimes, though, just feeling it and knowing it's there is enough to get you through.

"I can watch her, Uncle Terry," Ponyboy says. It's like he's speaking to you from a great distance. You're lost in your valium cocoon.

They're all looking at you now, and you realize that you've pushed it too far.

"No, that's your brother's call," you tell them, nodding at Darryl. "I'm just sayin'…don't be lying to Bernadine anymore. She asks you where…what the hell'd you call him?"

"Two-Bit?"

"Yeah, she asks you where Two-Bit is, you spill, understand?"

The younger two mumble _yes, sir_. Ponyboy goes back to his book, and Sodapop gets up and heads into the kitchen to wash dishes. Darryl folds his paper, and stands up. When he does, the floorboards beneath you shake.

"I'll go," he says.

"Nobody has to go," You tell him. Nobody has to do what you say.

"I'll just drive by, make sure that neighbor lady's home. If she ain't, I'll bring her back here. She's got to have homework she can do."

He already has his coat and his keys. He crosses the room in two quick steps. He doesn't look at you as he leaves, but you can't tell if it's because you've shamed him into looking after the girl or if you've overstepped your bounds.

As soon as he's gone, though, Sodapop abandons the dishes.

"So, tell me now, Uncle Terry- what's the Army like?"


	5. Chapter 5

SE Hinton owns the Curtis family and Two-Bit

**Hollow Man's Homecoming**

Five-

It hurts your head to think about it. You need a minute to corral your thoughts together, and so you gesture towards the kitchen indicating that you need something to drink. The boy puppy-dogs after you. You pull a couple of beers out of the refrigerator and hand him one. He looks at the bottle and then at you.

"I'm seventeen, Uncle Terry," he says.

Not for a minute do you believe this kid's never had a belt before. He isn't comfortable with you knowing it, though.

"You can join the Army in another year, but you can't drink for another four," you tell him. "Ain't that one of life's great ironies?"

"That's more of a paradox, Uncle Terry." Ponyboy is here too, and you wonder if you should give him a beer as well.

Instead, you pop yours open on the edge of the counter, and tell them:

"There's beautiful women in Korea, but there's beautiful women anywhere. I don't know if the Army made a loser out of me or if it just honed a skill I always had. Either way, I made a career out of losing everything."

They both stand there looking at you, puzzled. To punctuate your little speech, you take the finger-worn valium out of your pocket, pop it into your mouth, and wash it down with the beer.

Then everything seems to happen at once. The phone rings. It saves you and startles you at the same time. On the second ring, the screen door flies open and slams shut again. The house shudders as a tall, stocky boy with red hair enters.

He yells, "Phone!" at Sodapop, who is already rushed around you to answer it.

"You're supposed to be at home, Two-Bit," Ponyboy says to the visitor.

You look him up and down. You might've known. This is Bernadine's boy- built thick like a bear. He's grinning, but his eyes are weary. He knows he supposed to be home. Just doesn't give a damn.

"Uncle Terry," Soda calls, breaking your attention away from Bernadine's boy. "Phone's for you."

You're jarred by the noise and the new face and the pill starting to kick in. You take the receiver from Sodapop while still keeping one eye on Two-Bit.

"Yes. This is Terry Connelly."

"Mr. Connelly, this is Nell. From this afternoon. From Maryanne's old place."

The housekeeper's voice is more relaxed now than it was this afternoon. She sounds more like the Greenwood girl that she is.

"How can I help you?"

"I thought maybe I could help you," she says. "I can give you Miss Maryanne's…Mrs. Tyler's number, if you want it."

"Yeah. Sure."

You look around you for a pen and paper. You snap your fingers and point for Ponyboy to give you the pencil that's lying next to his homework on the coffee table. He hands it to you. You write the number down on the back of the phonebook.

"She's gone a lot," the housekeeper explains. "They travel, but they almost never come back here. If you want to talk to her, you'll have to call her."

"Thank you," you tell her. "I'll do that. I appreciate it."

She tells you to have a good evening and hangs up. You set the receiver down and tear off the piece of the phonebook where you wrote the number.

"Dang, Uncle Terry. You've only been here a day. You already got girls calling here?"

Soda winks at me, grinning.

"I don't get calls from girls. I get calls from women," you tell him and shove the number into your shirt pocket. You turn to Bernadine's son. "Your mom was by looking for you."

"Yeah, I'm headed back that way. My sister'll be alright. How do you know my mom?"

"Before your time. She and my sister were friends in school."

"Did you know my dad?"

You shake your head. "Can't say that I did."

Two-Bit shrugs. "Don't matter. We get along fine without him."

The tone in his voice says that they'll get along just fine without you, too, if you were thinking along those lines.

"So, you going to call her?" Sodapop asks. "The girl…_woman_ whose number you got?"

"It's long distance. I'll do it from a pay phone."

You walk past him, shaking your head, and something makes you reach out and clap him on the back as you pass. Some strange sign of camaraderie for you know not what. You got back to the kitchen to fetch your beer and then out the back door to smoke and stare up at the silent sky.

* * *

Something startles in the alley when you let the screen door close. You watch it dart out from behind the shed and scuttle on down the street- a raccoon, judging from the way it moves.

You light your cigarette and ponder calling Maryanne. Your guess is that Nell the housekeeper called Maryanne and asked permission to give the number. Maryanne told her to give the number of a house where she's never home, and had her pass on to you the line that she's never coming back here anyway. You can call, if you like, but you're not going to see her. That's what you're being told.

And yet, why even go that far? Why not just ignore you? Maryanne was never one to play games, but maybe she's learned. Maybe this is her way of twisting the knife.

Darryl Junior is whistling as he comes down the street. The Mathews girl is not in tow. The neighbor must have come through after all. Darry reaches the corner and a figure steps out of the alley from behind the shed. It was him who roused the raccoon and not you.

In the shadows, you can only see the silhouettes. The other boy is leaner in build than Darry. He's shorter, and yet his presence is menacing. Someone waiting around in the shadows for Darry must already know he couldn't take him hand-to-hand in a fight. Someone like that would come prepared.

You stub your cigarette out on the back step and strain to listen.

"You got a minute, Curtis?"

"Not really."

"Won't take more than a minute, man. Just a friendly reminder. Curly's getting out, and I'm expecting the kind of protection from you that we've been giving your little brothers."

"And I've told you that I'm happy to oblige that so long as Curly doesn't go stirring the pot. My brothers don't go looking for trouble. You brother…"

"What about him?"

"He lacks self-control."

"Shit," the stranger says. His hands are in his jacket pockets. It's a deceptively relaxed stance. He could have anything in those pockets. "We went to bat for y'all with the Socs. Have you forgotten that?"

"You were itching to be part of that rumble, Tim. I couldn't have kept you out of it if I'd wanted to."

Rumbles. Boys here still rumble. Some things never change. You haven't been in a rumble since Truman was president.

"Well, maybe you'd like it if I turned a blind eye to Ponyboy next time I see him wandering on his lonesome. I could do that pretty easily. He ain't that pretty to look at. We had agreed on equal protection, Curtis."

"I agreed to keep my eyes peeled and my ears open. I didn't agree to step in every time Curly throws a bottle at a car or pulls a gun in a liquor store."

"He knows better now."

"Does he? Did they teach him all kinds of manners in the reformatory? Have a little chat with him, will you, Tim? Make sure he understands that me and mine will have his back as long as he isn't the one starting shit."

Darry doesn't wait for a reply. He walks away from Tim. You keep an eye on Tim's hands stuffed in his pockets. Tim steps back into the darkness of the alley. You stand up as Darry reaches the porch.

"You hear all that?" He asks.

"Yep. Tell me- what that a friendly visit from a friend or an enemy?"

"A little of both. Shepard has a difficult time deciding what side of the line he wants to be on."

Darry goes up the steps and opens the door.

"Two-Bit's here," you tell him.

"Good."

"I'm going to take a walk. Clear my head a little."

Darry nods at you. His mind is somewhere else. He's thinking about this Tim character, and by now it's probably dawned on him that it's going to take a little more than air to clear your head. You wait for him to get inside. When you hear Two-Bit's voice, you start down the alley into the shadows where Tim Shepard disappeared.


End file.
